


Okay

by the_painless_moustache



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Autoerotic Asphyxiation, BDSM, Blood, M/M, because Chey wanted masochistic Sherlock and I don't know how to write masochism, ohoho okay, pain play, questionable things, slight dubcon, that's what this all amounts to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-25 00:06:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1621907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_painless_moustache/pseuds/the_painless_moustache
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You should be good for me, John. I can make this feel wonderful, or” Sherlock’s nails dig into John’s weak shoulder and John groans “I can make this hurt.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>*** </p>
</div>Sherlock and John are in an established relationship. Sherlock likes to hurt John, and John likes to be hurt. Sherlock also likes pushing John's limits.
            </blockquote>





	Okay

**Author's Note:**

> I owe this to my darling [Chey](http://tyrannys-angel.tumblr.com/)  
> I'm sorry if any of this is inaccurate, I'm not an expert but I do try my best to make it work

“I really wish it didn’t have to be this way.”

 John grinds his teeth down on the scarf in his mouth, his retort held back by its placement. Sherlock removes his belt slowly, looking decidedly disappointed. “You should’ve kept your mouth shut.”

 John does his best to sneer.

 Sherlock raises an eyebrow and wraps the buckle end of his belt around his hand. John glares at him until the detective walks behind him and out of his range. He doesn’t dare turn his head. Sherlock sighs, like John’s disappointed him again. Fingers run across his back, over scars and bruises, some from Sherlock, some not. “You should be good for me, John. I can make this feel wonderful, or” Sherlock’s nails dig into John’s weak shoulder and John groans “I can make this hurt.”

 John shivers. Sherlock pulls away. The first hit of the belt doesn’t hurt. It’s more surprise than pain that makes John yell. The second one hurts much more than the first. The third crosses them both and fucking _burns_. John growls. The fourth and fifth follow the first and second and the pattern continues. Sherlock lays a crisscross of stripes across his back, following whatever pattern he wants laid out on John’s skin. The skin breaks at some point. The pain is overwhelming but he’s okay. He’s done this, he _likes this_. John begins moaning, and Sherlock gives him three more in quick succession to finish the set before stopping. “These look so good on you.” Sherlock comments reverently, finger grazing over the raw flesh. “Fuck, John.”

 John shivers. Sherlock continues, a grin in his voice. “You love this. Love me marking you up, showing you off…showing them all you’re owned. Making it _hurt_. You’d let me carve my name into you if I wanted to.” This moan is practically ripped from John’s gut. The idea is heady; poisonous. He can see it. Sherlock’s name neatly sliced into his skin, scabbing and then turning pink and shiny with time. More permanent than a tattoo, more telling than wedding ring. A reminder he forever completely belonged to Sherlock, whether he wanted it or not. John admits to himself that’s exactly what he wants.

 Sherlock walks in front of him, crouching to catch his eyes. “I don’t know why you try to hide it, John. Hide how much you love this. Being tied up and gagged, completely and totally,” Sherlock trails a finger from John’s throat to his crotch, resting next to his red and leaking cock. “mine.”

 John meets his eyes defiantly. Sherlock grins. “God, I could punish you for hours. You’d love it. I want to.” He glances towards his alarm clock. “I’m pushing on two, now. Should we go for three? Your wrists are nearly bleeding and your back is open. I’m sure I could work on your torso, or your hips, or your thighs…” Sherlock follows a line down John’s body and then snaps his eyes back up. “You’d let me. You’d beg for it.”

 John feels himself blush. He knows this, and he knows Sherlock knows this. It’s not a secret. But it still makes his blood run hot when Sherlock reminds him. Sherlock stands suddenly, undoing his trousers and pulling out his cock and running his long fingers across its length a few times before squeezing. “God, you’re so pretty down there.” he breathes. “Look at those pretty lips. You must do it on purpose, licking them so much. That drives me insane. I should take away your chapstick, make them dry and crack and bleed. Make that hurt as well. Then make you suck me off with them.”

 John meets his eyes. He hopes that his desperation isn’t there, but it must be, because Sherlock only grins and strokes himself like he has all the time in the world. John assumes he’ll do this until he comes and then leave John untouched for awhile, because he does that, but Sherlock’s hand surprises him by coming off his cock and striking him across the face. The knuckles sting more than an open palm would’ve, but it’s the shock that Sherlock just fucking _hit_ him that settles the dread in John’s stomach.

 “Oo, that’s a lovely color.” Sherlock compliments, bending to meet his eyes. He grabs John’s chin tightly, fingertips digging into his skin so hard John’s sure he’ll bruise. He turns John’s head to assess the reddening skin. “I could do that again. I should.” John moans when the hand comes across his other cheek, snapping his head the other direction. “Oh, good. _Good_.”

John swivels to stare at him as he stands and leaves the room. He stares because Sherlock had just fucking hit him _twice_ and then left. Neither of them were shy with pain—obviously—but Sherlock didn’t _hit_ him. And he didn’t _leave_. He hadn’t given the signal yet—two snaps—but it had been enough of a push to consider it. The problem was that John’s cock had jumped more than his heart and John Watson did.

 Sherlock enters the room again. He had a cord in his hand, something plastic and threatening that he tugs so hard it gives a sharp _twang_ and hums with force. He rubbed it across John’s cheek lightly, giving him goosebumps and making it burn. Sherlock drops behind him quickly and John’s mind clicks just as the cord wraps around his neck.

 John pulls, but Sherlock pulls tighter. “Shh, it’s alright,” Sherlock soothes, and it’s not condescending like he normally is during a scene. It’s honest, clear. “John, it’s okay, trust me.” he orders, and John does. He just…does. He relaxes ever so slightly but his breath is still struggling. The cord is hard and unwelcome on his throat, just above his Adam’s apple, but he gives himself over.

 “Good, good.” Sherlock praises. “Oh, John, so good…”

 John wheezes and tugs instinctively. Sherlock tugs back, pulling them chest-to-back. Sherlock’s warm, and his hand is petting John’s neck, down his torso. He’s murmuring something but it’s watery through the blood rushing in John’s ears. He chokes and Sherlock presses a kiss to his cheek. It feels strange, like touching something with a string tied around your finger.

 Then there’s a hand on his cock and his vision wavers because all his blood tries to force it’s way south. There’s too many conflicting factors, too much going on at once and the scarf in his mouth is starting to taste like copper and he can’t breathe and—

 Sherlock let’s go, and the first breath sends every nerve ending a new volt of electricity. He comes with a groan and a kick backwards, struggling to get away from Sherlock despite the fact he trusts him. Instinct is winning out in the war going on with John’s body.

 In the end, he ends up laying on the floor, shivering with an awful headache and a sore jaw. Sherlock hisses and ruts against the back of his thigh, but John can’t bring himself to try and help. He wants to sleep for ever but never wants to close his eyes. He feels, for the first time, _scared_.

 After Sherlock comes, he unties John slowly and cleans him up with steady movements John can follow. And he does follow them, silently working his jaw. When Sherlock gets to his neck, he tenses and Sherlock pulls back. “Just checking. Okay?”

 “Why didn’t you ask me?” John demands, and his voice is a fucking _mess_. He sounds like someone who’s smoked for a hundred years, not himself. He doesn’t like it.

 “I just wanted to see what you’d do. You didn’t snap. I watched for it, I promise. I waited for it.”

 John lets him check the wound, lets him help him to Sherlock’s bed, but Sherlock doesn’t stay with him. He’s not far—John can hear his violin in the living room—but he’s not too close, either, and John needs that. When John wakes up in the morning, that’s what makes him feel better. Sherlock knows John better than John knows himself, always knows what John needs before he does. He runs his fingers over the stinging rubber burns on his neck and smirks. The bed sinks behind him and he relaxes before he even knows he’s been tense. Sherlock spoons against his back. “Okay?” he asks quietly, pressing his mouth to the tail end of the burn.

 And John nods. Because it is. Sherlock would hurt him but only if John was _okay_ with it. John has no doubt Sherlock never would’ve touched him with the cord if there’d been any more than a sliver of a chance John wouldn’t like it. And now, in the light of day with marks that will rub against every inch of clothing he wears, he can admit that he had liked it. That he’ll like it the next time they do it and he’ll like wearing Sherlock’s scarf to cover it for the next two weeks. So he nods again, because it is. He is. “Okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, did you know I have a [tumblr?](http://itsarugsbust.tumblr.com/) Because I do. It's a'ight


End file.
